


You always fold (just before you're found out)

by Katarik



Category: The Pretender
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Obsession, POV Male Character, Porn Battle, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katarik/pseuds/Katarik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: momentary. Porn Battle 2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You always fold (just before you're found out)

He likes running, it turns out. He likes winning -- the Centre thinks it's so powerful, so in control, and he runs rings around it. That's power, hot and addictive, like the smell of her in the moments she could reach out and touch him if she were able to take one more step.

She's the only one he ever lets come this close.

Closer.

It's always fast when he goes to her after a run like this, the adrenaline still high in both of them when he backs her against the wall and presses her mouth open for a kiss. She bites, he growls, and she snarls back, twisting free of his grip to pin him, press him down with the muscle she likes to keep hidden under her silk and her leather.

It's leather tonight, cool and slick under his hands, his mouth when he goes to his knees, lowering his head to trail his lips over her calves, pressing his mouth to the slit that goes high up her thigh. Her skin is softer than the leather, warm and smooth and sleek, and when he licks he can taste salt and cordite and an edge of the lotion she likes.

This isn't the night to take it gently, he knows, but he kisses anyway, slow and lingering and wet, until she growls and scratches at the back of his neck, tugs his head. Her skirt unzips easily, falling with a whisper to the hotel carpet under his knees, and her panties are a scrap of lacy silk that aren't anything but a tease to both of them. She always smells wonderful, rich and dark and salty-bright, and it makes his mouth water when he presses his nose to her, opens his mouth to lick, silk soft and moist under his tongue. He turns his head to lick her thigh, bite hard at the curve of muscle, and she gasps and tightens her grip on his hair, his shoulder.

He almost wants to take it slowly just to see how long she would let him, but that's not how they play this game. This dance isn't like their others -- she sets the steps here.

He drags her panties down with his teeth, scraping them over her skin, licking at her thighs in broad, flat strokes, and she kicks them and her shoes off impatiently.

He loves the long, clean lines of her, the way he can hear her hair cutting through the air when she shakes her head, the way her thigh shivers and tenses under his teeth when he bites her again. He could build up an immunity to her, maybe, if she did the same thing every time, if he could learn and predict her, but the sound she makes, the reaction she gives him, always changes. This time it's a hiss, sibilant and hungry, when he spreads her with his thumbs and presses his mouth in to lick.

His mind is always convinced that she tastes sweet. She never does. Coppery, salty, musky, addictive... but not sweet. Hard little knot of her clit that tightens under his tongue, and he never gets enough of this. Feeling her getting slicker under his mouth, wet with his spit and how much she wants him, the slick heat of her labia and the prickling softness of her hair on his chin, his cheeks -- there's never enough of this.

It isn't the best angle for this, with his neck tilted back so far and her hands firm on his head, but it's good. The sounds she makes, those rough little gasping moans, and the way her hips push-push against his mouth, setting how he's going to play this. She's always demanding, always ruthless, knows exactly what she wants from him, and knows exactly how to take it.

He always thinks of a vagina as small, in moments that aren't this one. Tiny little hole with marvelous powers of flexibility, but none of the words he knows from anatomy textbooks get across what that tight heat feels like around his tongue. Even the Kama Sutra doesn't describe what it feels like to be the man who can make her shudder, her nails raking over his shirt, with one long lick from base to apex with the flat of his tongue, his hips thrusting up against empty air.

He wants her. First kiss and first friend and first Valentine, if not his first lover, he's tried to rip her out of his head and it's never worked, he needs her, he needs -- her whine is sharp, bitten-off, and he sucks at her clit again to feel her tremble over him, around him.

He doesn't need to keep to a rhythm, draw this out. The foreplay was the chase, his blood pounding with the knowledge that she was after him, the trace of fear -- she's good, she knows him so well, brilliant and resourceful and sneaky, one day she might get closer than he means her to. But right now she's just moving, all her grace and strength gone to keeping him exactly where she wants him while she clenches and shakes and comes on his tongue.

He'll be gone before the sheets are finished cooling, if they even make it there. He'll have disassembled her phone and her gun and disappeared.

That's the thing about a dance. Sooner or later, it ends. Until the music starts again.


End file.
